Dear Phil:

I saw that book you gave me.
Remember?
The best-first-year
beat-up, bedraggled
copy you’d
“given to all your proteges”?

You forgot something.
I wasn’t your protege.

I didn’t need to hear
how Kari won
best-first-year-teacher
the year before
or
how I “might not get
rehired”
if I couldn’t control
period six.

I needed for you
to not be my mother
to not be my father
to not be
the beat-up
bedraggled
copy of criticism
that had followed me
all of my life.

Do you remember?
It was my first year
and one of your last.
At least you can walk away
knowing you
were there for me.

Love,
The Best First Year